There was a possibility of snow.
I looked out on a chilly white scene,
reflecting that extremes of weather are
matched by extremes of political fronts.
The season hangs its head
under a burden.
Out for a walk with 'Duke', I ducked
under snow-laden branches,
but it was the beast of a snowplough
that threw it at me – down my neck.
Is other traffic struggling
to get to where?
This morning the world feels very different.
We are searching to find where we are
as a big Trump of the white stuff
is flung at us. On the way to the White House
an occluded front is forecast.
So what to put on?